A Pint of Petrol
by 1732
Summary: Bates and Branson discuss the war.


**1915, spring**

Branson heard steps outside the garage, so he turned to see who needed his services. Mr Bates knocked on the open door, and stepped in.

"Mr Branson, could I trouble you for a pint of petrol?"

"Of course, Mr Bates." It was nice of Bates to give him a title, now and again, even if it was only when he needed a favor. "What's it for? You're not about to start a riot with it," he joked.

Bates smiled. "No, of course not. It works quite well at getting stains out, especially, well, the sort of stains you get from being near your car, there." He gestured at Branson's sleeve, which had a small grease spot.

"Hadn't seen that one, I'll have to get the other coat out before I run the ladies into the village. Petrol works on that? I've done a sight of scrubbing on the sleeves, I worry I'll wear them out." Branson found a jar, and used the hand pump to fill it.

He handed the jar to Mr Bates. "I was wondering, could I ask what you think of the war? You know my thoughts, but you never say anything, yourself, about whether you would go, if you could, or what you think of Thomas going, or of my not joining up with the others. I don't mean to pry, but I think you've got an opinion."

"Well, since you're asking my opinion, do you mind if I take a seat?"

Branson pulled up his chair, brushing it off, and sat on his tool chest. He hadn't expected Bates to answer. It was frustrating, sometimes, how closed up people here were, he was so used to everyone speaking their minds, at home.

"Pass me your coat, there, and a rag."

Bates started working on the stain, it was easier to talk if he had something to do with his hands. "You're wondering if I look down on you for not serving? I'd say I have no right to. After all, as you have said, this isn't your country, or your fight. Why should you go out to France?" He dipped the rag into the petrol, and held it against the stain. "But that's an easy question, and easily answered. As to Thomas, well, he's looking out for himself, and no one else, that's his way. William, now, there's a different matter. He wants to go out and fight for his country, and I well remember being like that. I can't look into the future and tell you he'll decide his country wasn't worth the bother, but many men have done so. Others decide that their country is all that matters in the end. Their country, their flag, their regiment. It's a powerful feeling." Bates paused to swallow. "Your comrades can be all that matters, and you give up keeping track of who saved who's life, after a while. It can be hard enough remembering all the lives that weren't saved in the end. William will go, or not go, and either way, it will be the most important decision of his life. I don't envy him that."

He dabbed at the stain carefully, working the grease out of the thick wool, and continued. "For every war, there's some sort of story that gets us into it. There's what they tell us in the newspapers, and then there's the reasons you think of, if you trace the events back for yourself. What are we doing? We're killing and dying out in France all because a Serbian shot an Austrian. If you think about it, there's very little reason for the whole affair. I feel sorry for the Austrians, of course, they didn't deserve to have their Archduke murdered, but is it really our business to send so many young men out to get slaughtered just for that? What are we trying to save, that was so threatened, and that won't be destroyed while we're busy saving it. Well, there's an opinion, but I don't know that it was worth as much as the pints' worth of petrol I charged you for it."

"So, do you think all wars are wrong, or just this one?"

"I think all wars are terrible. I don't even like a good brawl, anymore, really." Bates looked up as he said this, facing Branson. "It's a miserable thing, from beginning to end. Soldiers go off to it with a pack of lies in their heads, their lives are torn apart, even if their bodies aren't, and then it ends, and everyone pretends it never happened. Everyone but the dead, I think. Maybe some wars are fought for a good reason, I wouldn't know. Perhaps somewhere, or sometime, there's a war that makes the world a better place ten or a hundred years later, and people look back and think it was all worthwhile. This war is hard for me to fathom, it's so huge, like the wars against Napoleon over a century ago. So much bigger than Africa, and that was more bloodshed than I ever care to see." He tilted his head a bit.

"So, even if you could go, you wouldn't, then?"

Bates gave Branson a direct look, and passed the jacket back. "You'll still need to rinse the petrol out with a bit of soap and water, mind, but the black mark is gone."

Branson decided that Bates had answered as much as he was willing to. "Well, it's not every day I have my clothes seen to by a professional. Thank you, Mr Bates, and I'll remember that trick next time I get a grease stain."

But Bates didn't get up, right away. "I couldn't say really, if I'd go or not. There's an odd thing that happens, out there. It's terrible, it's terrifying, and you keep wishing you could be anywhere else at all, away from the smoke, the noise, the death. But then, if you do get away, after an hour, or a day, you want to go back. There's no accounting for it at all. You know that your mates are still there, still scared silly, and you want to go back, because nothing else seems real, and because they need you. The normal world seems like a dream, where people have strange, ordinary lives, and the only place that is real to you is where death and horror are all around you." Finally, he did get up, tossing the rag onto a counter, and sealing the lid on his jar. He could feel that need to be at the front tugging at him, even after almost a dozen years out of the army. It warred with his logical mind. "God, I hope I never experience such horrors again, but, if my leg was normal, if my regiment wanted me back, well - I might feel I had to go, even if it's a daft fight, and I should know better. If it kept one boy like William at home, not having to go through that, yes, I would have to. But I won't go, Mr Branson, because of my leg, and because my regiment doesn't want the likes of me." He paused, "Well, that was doubtless a lot more opinion than you cared to hear, but there it is. Thank you for the petrol." And with that, he washed his hands at the sink, retrieved his cane, pocketed the jar, and left the garage.

Bates turned the door handle at the servants' entrance. No, he hadn't really said any of that, it was just what was in his mind to say. He'd shown young Branson how to clean the grease out of his uniform, and he'd dodged the man's questions, as he always did. He was tempted to speak his mind, of course, but no good would come of it. A half a lifetime of biting one's tongue made a man less able to speak up, even when he had something to say.

* * *

_I don't recommend Bates' technique for stain removal, it was just a way to put him with Branson, who is talkative and curious enough to get him talking. Well, almost. Please do review, and let me know about any typos or other errors - thanks!_


End file.
